The Impersonator by Mary Miley Page A

enough to change the subject, and it worked. “Now then, my dear, why did you run away from home?”
    I gave a deep, pained sigh at the recollection. “At the time, I could not have told you the reason. I hated everyone. I thought everyone hated me. I took what money I had and caught the train to Portland, thinking only about having a good time for a few days, shopping and seeing shows. A real adventure. The first night, I went to a theater and loved the show so much, I joined a dance act and never looked back. I think if I hadn’t been hired so quickly, I’d have come home when I ran out of money.”
    “Why did you neglect to contact your family? Why did you let them worry so, thinking you were kidnapped or dead?”
    “I suppose I was punishing them for the pain I felt. Oh, I know now it wasn’t their fault. I blame my loneliness and my orphaned state. My cousins had parents—I had none. Life seemed unbearably unfair.”
    “Tell us about the past seven years.”
    Truth is easy, but nonetheless, I had rehearsed my response to this question as well. As two of the men took notes, I recounted my travels with the various acts, ending with the Darlings. I pulled playbills and theatrical photos from my handbag, described my roles and as many of the cities we visited as I could recall, and told them how to address mail to any act in care of the theaters listed in Variety, current examples of which I thoughtfully provided for them—a disarming tactic I thought of myself. They planned to hire a Pinkerton or two to run down the details, and this would help their investigation immensely. I professed myself happy to oblige.
    Like all civilians, they were intrigued with my tales of vaudeville life, and I deliberately dropped names they were likely to know, all carefully vetted to include only those I had met during the past seven years.
    “I got to know Benny Kubelsky, a violin and patter man who has changed his name several times. Now it’s Jack Benny.” A few nods. Some had seen Benny in San Francisco. “I played on the same stage with little Milton Berlinger—you may have seen him in several pictures with Mary Pickford, where they cut his last name in half. And I’ve shared billing with Mary Jane West—you know her as Mae.” To a man, they scowled and feigned disapproval, but I knew better. No male of the human species who had seen Mae West perform didn’t silently lust after her and wish his own wife possessed some of her brassy charm.
    When we had passed a cheerful hour, there came a knock at the door behind me. All heads turned as a petite lady with white hair, about eighty years of age and dressed in widow’s weeds, stepped into the room. She smiled at me, and all heads turned again, to watch my reaction.
    “Jessie!” She breathed my name in a melodramatic sigh often used by amateurs.
    It took me all of two heartbeats to figure out what they were up to. A shame Oliver wasn’t there to appreciate my agility. I had studied enough photographs to know Jessie’s grandmother’s every wrinkle. I merely stared at this stranger, my face a mask of bewilderment.
    “Well, Jessie,” prompted Mr. Wade. “Don’t you recognize your grandmother Beckett?”
    Now, really.
    Timing is everything, so I counted to five before I turned my wide eyes toward Mr. Wade. “I am certain I would recognize my grandmother if she were to walk into this room, sir. That nice lady is not my grandmother.”
    At that, the room broke into a hullabaloo, with little Jessie’s eyes demurely cast down as the interrogators shook hands all around, exclaiming their apologies for the dastardly trick. Only one of them—the youngest of the old men—remained in his seat, eyeing the others as if they were sums on a ledger sheet that were not quite adding up. I heard him clear his throat and say something about a governess to the man next to him.
    But the show was over. There was no turning back now. Ring down the curtain. Applause, applause for Jessie